


A Good Man

by betts



Series: Kinkmeme Fills [8]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drunk Sex, F/M, Meet-Cute, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-06-25 15:54:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19748935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betts/pseuds/betts
Summary: For the prompt: Uptight CEO Clarke who hasn't been fucked in years.





	A Good Man

It’s been sixteen years since Clarke has had sex. She was twenty-two and it was with Finn Collins, and it was the most mediocre sex a human is capable of having. She didn’t even come, not even close. Every other aspect of her life is amazing — she has a good relationship with her family, she’s in great health, and she’s the CEO of a Fortune 500. She has more money than god, thanks to both old wealth and new. She will never want for anything of monetary value in her life. 

But — she doesn’t have time to date, and can’t bring herself to ask her assistant to find an escort service. She’s not sure she’d like paying for sex anyway. Isn’t half the fun seeking the feeling of mutual desire? The thrill of being liked and seen? The sad thing is, no one even hits on her anymore. Everyone is too intimidated. They assume someone like _her_ could never be attracted to someone like _them._ And now the saddest thing: she can’t remember the last time she had a simple hug. The last time she was held, or fell asleep beside someone. The last time her palms got sweaty from gripping the hand of someone she liked. She was a teenager, maybe. Back when good grades and a strict mother were her biggest problems. When everyone was on the same level, and no one cared about money, and you flirted by your locker between classes. 

It’s been a long week. She's driving back to New York from a conference in Cleveland (she hates flying). And anyway, driving across the planes of the Midwest, away from the city, phone calls, people in general — it’s the only peace she really gets. The sun is sinking down on the horizon, and she hasn't eaten dinner. She thought she’d be able to barrel through on coffee, but it’s becoming clear she’ll have to stop for the night. She pulls off the highway in some one-road town in Pennsylvania and finds a bar all lit up with neon. 

Inside, the place is dark, wood-paneled, sparsely populated. A couple guys are playing darts in the corner. The jukebox is spinning Willie Nelson. A dusty TV above the bar runs a prime time sitcom she’s never seen. She sits at the bar and glances over the placemat menu. Greasy bar food. Her diet usually consists of salads, smoothies, and quinoa. She doesn’t even pick her own food anymore — her assistant does. When the bartender asks what she wants, she orders the nachos. 

The game of darts ends and one of the men comes and sits next to her. He’s young — too young for her anyway — freckled and wild-haired, lean muscle under a rumpled t-shirt. Dirty jeans and steel-toed boots. He’s not shy about the fact he’s inspecting her. She tries to ignore him. This happens sometimes. She’s never learned how to handle it.

“Hey, I know you,” the man says. “You’re that one chick. You were on the cover of TIME.”

She gives him a brief, uncomfortable smile and looks away again, hoping he’ll get the hint.

He holds out his hand to her. “I’m Bellamy Blake.”

The friendliness of Midwesterners. A New Yorker would never do this. 

She politely takes his hand. It’s shockingly large and rough, so different than the hands of the businessmen that constantly surround her. “Clarke Griffin. Good meeting you.”

To her horror, Bellamy slides over to the seat beside her. “Can I buy you a drink?”

“Oh, no, thank you. I have to drive.”

“Come on, one drink. Anything you want.”

A man has never bought her a drink before. It’s one of those things that seems so ubiquitous, something every woman experiences, or so she's led to believe. She plays the gesture off as more Midwestern kindness, but the way he’s looking at her — she gets that strange feeling she hasn’t felt in ages, the intuition that someone is attracted to her.

“Alright,” she says. 

“Murphy!” Bellamy Blake shouts.

Murphy comes over from the other end of the bar, looking bored and irritated, a rag tossed over his shoulder. 

“Get this lovely lady anything she wants.”

“I’ll have a vodka and soda,” she says. 

“Well vodka okay?”

No, it absolutely isn’t, but she’s not about to ask for something more expensive. “That’s fine.”

While Murphy mixes her drink, Bellamy says, “I read your book, you know.”

She nearly cringes. Her publicist commissioned a memoir a few years back. When the MS made it to her desk, she passed it off to her assistant. It was on the New York Times Bestseller list for over a year, and she has no idea who what’s in it. 

“Did you like it?” she asks.

“It was only okay. Got the feeling a lot of it wasn’t exactly true.”

She surprises herself by laughing. It's been a long time since she laughed, a real laugh and not one to placate rich white men. She leans in and asks, “Can I tell you a secret?”

The way he smiles at her sends a shiver down her back. “Always.”

“I didn’t write it. I didn’t even read it.”

Bellamy whistles. “God, what's it like to live your life?”

"Shockingly un-fun."

Murphy brings her drink and walks away before she can thank him. She takes a sip — it tastes like shit. There was a time in her life she would drink anything someone put in her hand. She partied all night and studied all day. She bought Adderall at fifteen dollars a pill from a med student whose name she can’t remember, and she paid for it by taking cash advances from her mother's credit card at the grocery store. There was a time when she used to buy her own groceries. 

“So what do you do, Bellamy Blake?”

“Come on, you don’t want to hear about me.”

“You already know all about me, so tell me about you.”

He relents with false reluctance and humility. “I own a body shop.”

That explains why he read the memoir. It was marketed strongly to small business entrepreneurs. The truth is, Clarke did very little to set up her own business. Her father gave her the capital she needed and she hired other people to do the rest. She can’t imagine doing the work of the business you also own. She has no idea what her lowest-paid employees even do. 

She lifts her glass to him. “To successful entrepreneurship.” 

He clinks his beer to her vodka soda and they both drink without breaking eye contact. She’s nearly giddy. She feels like a teenager again. A cute boy likes her. Even if it’s because of her wealth and fame, he’s not backing down. He’s not afraid of her or threatened by her. 

Her nachos arrive and she offers to split them. Conversation moves easily. He asks why she’s in town and she says she’s driving through from a business trip. Why doesn’t she just fly? Afraid of flying, she says. Why? Bellamy asks. That’s a long story. 

“We got time,” he replies, chin propped on his hand.

“This probably wasn’t in the memoir.” 

“Nope.”

So she starts to tell him about 9/11 — 

“Wait. How old were you on 9/11?” she asks.

“Four.”

“Oh my god. You’re a _baby_."

— and how she didn’t live far from the Twin Towers, saw with her own eyes the second plane as it hit the building. She was seventeen. Her mother tried to usher her inside, but she refused to go, insisted on watching the whole thing. Thankfully no one she knew was hurt, but to this day planes terrify her. She’s taken near-lethal doses of benzos the few times she’s been forced to fly.

She doesn't notice that Bellamy ordered her another drink until she picks up her glass and sees it’s full again. 

“You don’t have to do this,” she says.

Somehow he’s inched closer to her, his knee brushing hers under the bar. He trails his fingers lightly down her arm. She hopes he can’t see the goosebumps that erupt over her skin, face already flushed from the drinks and the heat of the bar. 

“I want to.”

“You,” she says, feeling tipsy now, “are very confident.”

“I’ve got no reason not to be.”

She laughs. God, it feels good to laugh. 

“Tell me more about your life,” she says. “I want to know everything.”

The nachos dwindle to crumbs. They split a piece of pecan pie — “Best pie in the country,” Bellamy says, though she’s sure everyone says that about their town’s pie — and he tells her about how he grew up here, that he's been working on cars since he was fifteen. Never went to college. Takes care of his sister, who’s still in high school. His mother passed away a few years ago. 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she says. “My dad passed away recently too.”

“See? We got loads in common,” and he buys her another drink.

By her fifth vodka and soda, she’s more drunk than she’s been in over a decade, and Bellamy’s hand is on her thigh. She doesn’t know when it got there, and she’s mortified by how aroused she is just from the warmth of his palm through her skirt. At some point she discarded her suit jacket and unbuttoned the top few buttons of her shirt. She’s caught him looking at her breasts a few times, but then again, maybe he’s not trying to hide it.

“Can I tell you another secret?” Her heart is pounding and her words come out slurred. She doesn’t care.

“Always.”

She leans in. Her lips graze the shell of his ear. He exhales heavily, his own cheeks flushed now. His hand grips her thigh more tightly. A renewed surge of desire hits her. 

“I haven’t had sex in sixteen years.”

She expects him to be surprised, maybe even disgusted, or worse, laugh at her. But he only shifts his hand farther up her skirt, leans in, and says, “Why don’t we fix that?”

He pays the tab. Clarke wobbles on her legs and almost forgets her suit jacket. She follows him to his truck, where he opens her door and helps her up into it. 

On the drive, which is quiet and deliciously tense, Bellamy says, “You know, my sister’s sixteen."

She shoves his shoulder. “Don’t tell me that.”

“So how is it the most gorgeous and successful woman on the planet hasn’t gotten laid in sixteen years?”

 _Gorgeous_. No one’s called her gorgeous before. 

“I work eighty hours a week, and men are threatened by me.” She rolls her head toward him. Reality is spinning. “Are you threatened by me?”

“Do you want me to be?”

“No.”

“Then I’m not.”

“Why not?”

“Got a nice life for myself here. Don’t want for much. Just because you have more doesn’t say anything about me.” He glances at her with a teasing smile. "Learned that in your memoir."

"Shut up, you did not."

He winks at her, actually _winks_ at her. "Guess you'll have to read it to find out."

She’s in love, she’s decided. She’s going to settle down here in this truck-stop town whose name she still doesn’t know, population probably under a thousand, and never, ever go back to New York, and get dicked down twice a day by a young promising body-shop owner and the only person she’s met since her MBA who treats her like a human being.

He pulls into the driveway of a ranch house settled on a few acres of well-mown land. He’s got a porch swing and pansies in planters. Lace curtains and a security light over the two-car garage. Inside, a large dog, a Husky, greets them and noses at Clarke’s knees. When he jumps up, he nearly knocks her over.

“Apollo, down. Down, boy,” Bellamy hisses. The dog gets down. Clarke pats him on the head and he licks her hand.

Bellamy flicks on a few lights. When was the last time Clarke flipped a light switch? All of the lights in her suite are on sensors. She doesn't even have to think about turning on lights when she enters a room, that's how detached she's become.

“Where’s your sister?” she asks, feeling only slightly less drunk than at the bar and therefore more nervous.

“At a sleepover.”

What if she’s forgotten how to have sex? What if she’s terrible at it? It’s been years since she’s even watched porn. 

“You want something to drink?” he asks, opening the fridge.

The house is very '70s, orange oven and pink tile, oak hardwood floors, formica countertops. Like stepping into a time machine. It’s immaculately clean except for a newspaper on the kitchen table and a pair of women's Keds by the front door. 

“What’ve you got?”

“PBR.”

“I’ll take it.”

He tosses her a can and she somehow catches it. It tastes like piss. She lets it flow to the back of her tongue, like she used to in college. He leans against the fridge drinking his beer. He's watching her with amusement, seeming to revel in her anticipation. She's wound around his finger. They talk a while longer, about his sister Octavia and how her grades are slipping because she started dating a senior. Clarke says she's always wanted siblings, that it would have taken some of the pressure off, to split the burden of success in two. You'd think so, Bellamy says, but then you'd just end up in competition with each other, and both of you would feel inadequate. She doesn't disagree.

“I don’t remember how this goes,” she says, unable to wait any longer.

“Don’t worry about it.” He takes a step closer and she takes one back. The table hits the back of her thighs. He continues forward, in her space, cups her face in his hand and kisses her lightly. 

She can’t remember her last kiss at all, who it was with, when, where, if she enjoyed it. She doesn’t know what to do with her hands. Eventually muscle memory kicks in and she kisses him back, tentatively at first, light brushes of his mouth against hers. He parts her lips with his tongue and deepens the kiss. She’s shocked by the moan in her throat. Moaning. She's lost this whole portion of her identity, her sexual expression, the way she performs physical love. She moans a lot. She shouts when she comes. She sucks lips. She likes giving head. All of these pieces of her, crumbled away, swept aside for bigger, more important things like board meetings and networking events. For the first time in her life, she wonders, maybe this is more important. Connecting with another person. Allowing herself to be seen and loved for who she is, even if it's only for a night.

She sets her beer down and starts tugging at the buttons of her shirt, but he stops her with a light hand over of hers. “Let’s take it slow, huh?”

“I don’t want it slow.”

He kisses her cheek, her jaw, a sensitive spot below her ear. “Yeah, you do.”

She's held so much power for so long. In every room she enters, she is always the smartest, the most beautiful, the wealthiest, the most successful. Here, in this modest kitchen in Pennsylvania, none of that matters. She can set it all aside, and let Bellamy take the lead.

He guides her to his bedroom, which is small and just as clean as the rest of the house. He flips on a light. Even back when she had frequent sex, she never did it with the lights on. He closes the door on Apollo, who whines and thumps the door with his head.

“Ignore him,” Bellamy says. He nods to the bed. “Sit down.”

She does. Bellamy takes off his shirt and lets her stare at him. He kicks off his shoes and jeans, left only in his boxers now, crawls over her until she’s lying down, and kisses her again. She puts her hands all over him, scrapes her nails down his back. He undoes one button at a time, and with each new inch of flesh revealed, he peppers her with more kisses, the tops of her breasts, her stomach. 

He slots his hand between her legs, under her skirt, and rubs her over her underwear. She's almost embarrassed by how wet she is already, when they've barely even done anything. She wishes she’d been more prepared — she hasn't shaved down there in years, her underwear is of the expensive albeit granny-shaped variety, and the last time she showered was sometime last night. She’s been driving all day in a hot car. Bellamy doesn’t seem to care. 

“I want you to do what you want to me,” she says.

He lets out a soft laugh by her throat, shifts her underwear to the side and sinks a finger into her. “Everything, you mean?”

“Everything," she gasps.

He fingers her and kisses her like he has all the time in the world, like he knows her body better than she knows her own. He was right — he deserves all the confidence he has.

She’s shocked when she comes, two fingers inside her and his tongue in her mouth. She doesn’t masturbate often, maybe once a month or so. It takes her ages to turn herself on, and even longer to find which toy to use, and the longest to come. And when she does, it’s never more intense than a sneeze, and she falls asleep immediately after.

He looks into her eyes as he sucks her taste off of his fingers. Then he shoves up her skirt, tugs off her underwear, and settles between her legs. His tongue is hot on her cunt, and she unconsciously grips his hair and drags him closer. He huffs a laugh and goes harder. She thinks surely she can’t come again — she’s never come more than once before — but soon she’s shuddering and shouting, grinding against his face.

“You want another before I fuck you?” he asks, breathless, wiping his wet mouth with his wrist.

She nods. She’s greedy now, desperate for more. How has she lived so long without this? 

He eats her out again, this time moaning against her, mouth rough, teeth scraping her clit. She can feel his desire ripple through her body. She thought she was too old for this, that multiple orgasms were a thing for young people or fictional characters, but she comes and comes, too intense to even make noise, silence clogged in her throat as she peaks. 

“I could do that forever,” he says, breathless again. 

Her body is still twitching, skin cooling under the squeaky ceiling fan. “Come here,” she manages. “Please.”

He lies beside her and she burrows into his arms. He holds her. God, she missed being held. Missed the simplicity of a warm body, fingertips trailing up her spine as pleasure seeps out of her skin. He kisses her forehead, pushes her sweaty hair from her temples. She probably looks like a mess. She can feel the wet spot under her hip, on top of the comforter. She should offer to pay for his dry cleaning.

When finally she’s settled, her bones like jello, Bellamy tells her to take off the rest of her clothes. She does, getting a thrill at throwing them to the side, not folding them neatly, even though her outfit probably cost over a thousand dollars. She doesn’t know for sure — a stylist measured her and put together her wardrobe. 

Bellamy returns naked, stroking his cock with a condom in his other hand. She waits for him, legs spread. He climbs between them, rolls the condom on, and sinks into her, easy as pie. She forgot that sex is easy, that it feels natural and real, and her body knows it all already, like eating or breathing. He fucks her slowly at first, pushes in deep on each thrust. Time slips and spreads and she finds herself on top now, licking two of her fingers and pressing them to her clit, one hand on Bellamy’s chest as she rides him and comes again. 

Then she’s on her knees, and she takes a look at the clock — three a.m., nearly awake for twenty-four hours now. Bellamy pounds into her, her ponytail wrapped around his fist while he shoves her body back onto his cock. He’s saying things about how tight she is, how fucking good her cunt feels, she's beautiful, sexy — 

She comes again, can feel the wet trickle down her thighs. “Fuck,” Bellamy says, “God, fuck, I’m gonna come,” and shoves into her one last time. She nearly comes again at the throb of his cock, the low sound he makes while he spends himself inside her. He presses a light kiss to her spine. A simple gesture, the smallest thing, but more affection than she's received in decades.

“God, that was good,” he says as he rolls onto his back. “That was so fucking good.”

"Did the memoir teach you that, too?" 

"You wish, princess."

She rests beside him, the only spots touching are her elbow to his forearm, her knee to his thigh. His window is open and nightsong fills the room, cicadas and bullfrogs, no traffic or planes flying overhead or music throbbing through the floor. Only nature. Peace.

“I should go,” she says, pulling away. 

He catches her arm. “Why?”

“Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do?”

“Maybe that's how it works on TV, but I figured we’d take a shower and go to sleep.” 

“Really? You’d let me stay the night?”

He smiles at her like she said something cute. No one ever looks at her like she’s cute. “I'll even make you pancakes.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to. Come on, let’s get cleaned up.”

In the shower, while she’s styling Bellamy’s hair into a shampoo mohawk, she says, “I’ve never showered with anyone before.”

“It’s great," he says, picking her up and setting her back down at the far end of the tub, "when your partner doesn’t hog the spray."

After, he dries her off with a towel and kisses her again. It amazes her, being kissed with nothing coming after it — no desire or intention, just a kiss between two people, to feel good. To show love.

In bed now, she’s naked under the covers, half-asleep the moment her head hits the pillow. “Are you sure this is okay?”

He switches off the light and curls around her back, an arm draped over her. “I’m sure.” 

Tomorrow, she has to go home to New York where no one appreciates the slopes of her body, where no one tries to make her laugh, where happiness is only found in nine-minute intervals when she hits snooze on her alarm. But for now, she's in the arms of a good man who lives a good life, and for once, she's at peace.

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently Pennsylvania's status as being part of the midwest is hotly contested. If you're a Pennsylvanian who believes your state is not in the midwest, and are therefore outraged by my egregious error, my apologies. 
> 
> I'm bettsfic on tumblr and twitter.


End file.
